Baker Street: The Arrival of Nikki Johnston
by VJ Spencer
Summary: After the saddening death of dear Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and John need to find a new tenant for the flat downstairs. Over 30 applicants apply, but the one that catches their attention is Nikki Johnston. She's different. She's smart. And she fits right in at Baker Street. But Nikki isn't all that she appears to be...
1. Chapter 1

"Right," I said, glancing down a my list, "The next one is Nikki Johnston. She's twenty-six, non-smoker, works part-time as a waitress, and owns a dog."

"Ugh, dogs," Sherlock spat in disgust, "I never liked dogs. Stupid animals."

"Yes, well, you didn't state any rules about pets," I said, then added in a mutter, "especially when it comes to levels of intelligence."

I was sat in the armchair of the living room and my eyes stared unseeingly at the list in front of me. We'd been doing this for days now - interviewing people - and the task was becoming harder and harder with every person that left through the front door, with an expression that said they never wanted to set foot there again. Sherlock and I needed the rent money in order to keep ourselves well fed and looked after - even if there was hardly ever any food in the fridge - and never did I think the passing of dear old Mrs Hudson would ever cause so much hassle for the two of us.

What I found most annoying about the whole situation was how Sherlock had chosen to handle it. I knew it was his was of grieving, and saying that he didn't want anyone to live in Mrs Hudson's rooms downstairs, but what Sherlock needed to understand was that the phone bills had dramatically increased since his most recent experiment had begun - something about listening in on phone conversations in different countries. I hadn't listened to Sherlock's explanation - I'd been too angry at the time to care what he was doing. I had been far more worried about the money we'd need to pay to the phone company...

"They get hair everywhere, too," Sherlock added, half to himself, "...and tend to smell."

"What amazes me Sherlock is that you never fail to focus on the negative."

"What amazes _me_, John, is that you still think I care about all this."

"Well you should care. We are talking about the person who is going to be our neighbour, Sherlock. And after you scared off the last thirty-odd applicants -"

"Thirty two."

"- I would appreciate it if you just give it a rest, alright?"

"Are you asking me to be someone I'm not?"

"I'm asking you to be quiet." I said, feeling myself on the verge of irritation, "Okay? No snide comments. No deductions. And definitely no acting, okay?"

"Fine."

The doorbell rang. I looked over at Sherlock who was sprawled out on the sofa in his pyjamas and dressing gown, plucking the strings of his violin absentmindedly as he stared up at the ceiling.

"Are you going to get that?" I asked.

"Why should I? I haven't answered the door to the rest of them."

"Well could you at least get dressed?"

"I could," He answered, in that rather bored tone of his. But he didn't move.

Realising I was getting nowhere with him, I got up from my armchair, and went to answer the door.

The image I had concocted in my mind when I read the application form, was of an unintelligent, lazy girl with one of those annoying little yapping dogs. Bleach-blonde hair, ridiculous heels, an inability to say a single sentence without the word "like". That was what I had presumed. I was quick to judge, I'll be upfront and honest - but that was probably because I was just bored of the process now. Everyone who could have been considered a possible tenant was scared away by Sherlock and his tendencies. And everyone else...well, the few who hadn't been driven away were (how do I put this nicely?) barking mad.

I wondered what Sherlock would have made of Nikki Johnston from just looking at what she had written down. However, I hadn't allowed him to look at any of the forms after he had done so with the first one; coming to the immediate conclusion that the poor middle-aged man was an obsessive compulsive who was incredibly overriding and had a tendency to be emotionally clingy. How he managed to deduce such a thing, I have no idea, but when the door bell rang, Sherlock rang straight towards it and refused to give the man entry. He wasn't even given a chance.

And as for the rest of the applicants that I had deemed acceptable in their interviews - Sherlock had managed to drive them all away. To begin with, he was quite blunt with them and did his normal thing of pointing out their biggest insecurities and flaws and revealing their secrets just by looking at what they were wearing. However, after the first few, that became "boring", and so Sherlock did something that he had picked up by watching sit-coms (something I now regret getting him in to).

He acted crazy.

And I'm not talking about the usual "Oh, that's Sherlock. He's a psychopath" crazy. I'm talking about "You need to lock that guy in a padded room and throw away the key". That kind of crazy.

In any other situation, I would have found Sherlock's acting incredibly amusing. And, actually, I did have to stifle laughed on a few occasions when he did things that were absolutely ridiculous. But, as I was trying to find a resident for the flat downstairs, and a housekeeper to come and tidy 221B on a regular occurrence, I was beginning to find Sherlock's actions rather annoying.

Nothing changes there then.

So, silently praying that what Sherlock had in store this time wasn't too bad, I grasped the handle of the front door, and swung it open.

"Hi, I'm Nikki," Said the person who was stood waiting, "I'm here about the flat."

The woman that stood before me was nothing like I had imagined. Her hair wasn't dyed, she wore little makeup, and was practically dressed for the weather and occasion. She looked older than twenty-six, appeared extremely mature for her age, and, quite frankly, she was...well, _stunning_.

I stared at her for a long moment, "You're..._you're_ Nikki?"

"Yes..." She answered uncertainly, with a nervous laugh, "Were you expecting someone else?"

"Oh, no...I was expecting someone a little more...I mean, a little less..."

She looked at me expectantly again. I realised I was rambling.

"Sorry," I said, with an apologetic and perhaps bashful smirk, "Please, come in."

Nikki walked past me and headed up the stairs, as I directed. As she passed, I couldn't help but notice the dazzling smile she gave me.

'_No_,' I told myself firmly, '_She's too you for you, John. She's too young_...'

I allowed myself to glance at her as she climbed the staircase. She looked amazing from the back too.

I heard myself let out a small whine of desperation.


	2. Chapter 2

After taking a brief moment to snap myself the _fuck_ out of it, I followed Nikki upstairs, praying that she had the strength to pass whatever ludicrous test Sherlock had in line for her. It was apparent that he wasn't too keen on getting a new neighbour. But, out of all of the people who had applied, part of me wanted Nikki to be something different. Someone that Sherlock found interesting enough to move in downstairs.

We needed the rent money, Sherlock needed the entertainment, and I needed to get out on Friday nights and away from my flatmate's annoying antics.

"Hmm, this is a nice place you've got here," Nikki said as she looked around the living room, "I love your choice of decor."

I entered the room behind her, "Thanks," I said, "Please excuse the mess, though. My flatmate refuses to keep things tidy..."

"Flatmate?" Nikki questioned.

And that was when I noticed - where was Sherlock?

"Um...yeah. Flatmate. He was...he was here a minute ago..." My eyes scanned the living room and kitchen, but saw no sign of Holmes's curly hair, "Please," I said, "Take a seat."

Nikki did so, shrugging off her smart leather jacket in the process and making my heart rate quicken slightly when I saw the fitted jumper she wore underneath. It complimented her figure perfectly...not that I was looking.

"You like knitwear too?" I asked, settling into my armchair.

"Oh," She said sheepishly, "Yes, I do. Most people don't really appreciate a good woollen jumper - but I love them. The feel of wool reminds me of my dad - he wore them all the time."

"Oh really?" I said, still anxiously looking around the room. I was still wondering where Sherlock had gotten too. I had a feeling that his disappearance wasn't going to be a good thing - even though I had been wishing desperately for the past week that he would just leave the flat and let me get on with the job.

"So, um...what kind of things do you need to ask me?" Nikki enquired, trying to get me to focus again.

When I didn't answer her, she got even more confused.

"I'm sorry, but is there something bothering you?"

And that's when what I had been expecting happened:

"AAH!" Sherlock yelled from somewhere above our heads and, too my horror, I looked up to see him swinging from the light fitting; clinging onto the ceiling like some mad human-spider.

I stared at him, not believing what I was seeing. Nikki nearly screamed.

"This is your flatmate?" She guessed, and I could tell by her expression that SHerlock had absolutely terrified her.

"Yes," I sighed, standing up, and looking at Sherlock as he hung from the ceiling, "Sherlock, _will you get down from there_?!"

"No!" He yelled.

"SHERLOCK!"

_Thud_. He fell to the ground.

"Dear Lord..." Nikki muttered under her breath, "Are you alright?"

"Me? Fine. I'm fine. Never done something like that before. Usually land on the sofa. Missed this time...damn...should probably try that again..."

He scampered across the floor to the bookshelves in the corner, like some kind of animal, but I grabbed hold of his shoulder before he managed to climb back up it again.

"Sherlock," I hissed into his ear, "Stop this. Stop it now. Nikki's nice - you'd see for yourself if you'd just act..._sane_ for once!"

Sherlock glared at me with a false expression of shock in his eyes. I scowled back at him to show him just how serious I was being.

For a split second I thought he was going to do something stupid again. But, to my great surprise...

"I'm terribly sorry," Sherlock said with a smile, turning to face Nikki again, "That was just a little game I like to play with John - I know how much it annoys him. How are you, Nikki?"

"I'm...I'm good...thanks," She answered uncertainly, standing to shake Sherlock's outstretched hand, "And you must be the flatmate...?"

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you."

And that was when something even more surprising happened:

"_Holmes_?" She said, in disbelief, and I watched as her face went from utter mistrust to complete infatuation, "Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, sir. You're the famous detective, aren't you? Sherlock Holmes: the man who fooled the nation. My, my, this is a big day for me."

"It...it is?" I put in, only to be ignored.

"I followed all your cases, right from the beginning," Nikki said, "Outstanding - truly remarkable with your deductions, Mr Holmes. And might I just say, I didn't believe a word of it when all of that stuff about Richard Brook came out. I knew you were real. You had to be. No one would have quite an imagination to create such cases. They were just too remarkable."

"Well it's always good to meet a fan," Sherlock said, giving me one of the smuggest smiles I had ever seen. It made me want to punch him, for some reason.

"Shall we get back to the interview?" I said, forcing my own smile and gesturing for us all to sit down once again, "now that Sherlock has stopped messing around and has decided to act his age rather than an juvenile eight year-old?"

"Don't use long words, John," Sherlock told me, and I noticed that he was using his usual bored tone of voice once more; obviously his enjoyment in my misery hadn't lasted long, "she won't know what they mean."

"_Excuse_ me?" Nikki put in.

"Sherlock!"

"You're in your mid twenties and work as a waitress," Sherlock said, sitting down and placing his finger tips together like he always did when he was trying to think, "Doesn't exactly project the image of intelligence, does it?"

"You're in your mid thirties and are still in your pyjamas in the middle of the day," Nikki retorted, "what does that say about you?"

I was expecting Sherlock to actually answer her, but to my surprise, he didn't. Instead, he turned his head sharply to look at her - his expression thoughtful and searching and...was that _interest_ I just saw in his eyes?

I wasn't give long enough to confirm my sighting, for Sherlock then stood up sharply and left the room without another word of backwards glance; acting as if the small interaction with Nikki had never happened.

That was when she looked back at me.

"Just ignore him," I said, with a smile, "I always do. He never really turns out to be what everyone expects." I looked up at the light fitting again and huffed when I noticed Sherlock had broken it, "Sorry about his um...'little joke' too..."

"It's alright," Nikki laughed with an awkward smile, "He's...quite a character though, isn't he? I mean...I feel so stupid now for admitting I follow his cases..."

"You read my blog then?"

"_Your _blog?"

"Yes."

She stared at me; "You're..._you're_ John Watson?"

I chuckled, "I believe I said a similar thing to you when I answered the door..."

"Yes but..." She smiled in glee and looked even more embarrassed than she had before, "No, it's just...you're _the_ John Watson? The blogger?"

"Yes."

"Wow...and I thought meeting Sherlock Holmes was-" She caught herself, and I was curious for her to continue, but she changed the subject before I had the chance, "So I hear there's a housekeeping job being advertised too?"

"Well, I haven't exactly sent the advert to the newspaper printers yet but...hang on, how did you know that?"

"You left the draft on the coffee table," She said, her eyes swiftly sliding down to where it lay by the plate of biscuits before looking back at me and smiling slyly, "I notice things too. And I think you should know that I'd be up for it; you wouldn't even have to pay me full, seeing as though I'd already be your neighbour."

She winked at me and I felt my heart stop just briefly. Oh God, what was wrong with me? This girl was just young enough to be my daughter and I could hardly breathe when she looked at me...still, I had to congratulate her for still keeping her nerve after suffering the wrath of Sherlock. That was never an easy test for people to pass.

"It's a difficult job to take," I warned, admiring her bravery, and avoiding her gaze, "Sherlock isn't exactly the easiest person to live with."

"How so?" She asked, "You know, beside the hanging from the ceiling and jumping on strangers when they're unaware?"

"Well...he can be _incredibly_ annoying."

"I think you might be confusing the word 'annoying' with 'intelligent' again, John," Sherlock interjected as he suddenly arrived in the living room, now properly dressed. He then turned to Nikki, "Dressed to impress, I see?"

"I've come for an interview," She answered, "of course I'm dressed to impress. As are you, of course."

" 'Of course' ?" Sherlock questioned.

"Well your job requires you to be ready for a call at any time," Nikki stated, "You dress smart, but not too smart, because you never know when you might have to leave the flat at a moment's notice. You could be heading anywhere - dressed like that, you'd be allowed into most restaurants, clubs, and pretty much any other public place you can imagine. You're prepared. So _of_ _course_ you would dress like that."

Sherlock stood for a minute, analysing her again, before disappearing into the kitchen with a confused expression on her face.

Hang on..._confused_?

And then of course there was me: sat there staring at Nikki like some idiot.

"That was incredible," I laughed, "You just...you just used the science of deduction on Sherlock Holmes!"

She blushed, "Why, thank you."

"But um, getting back on topic; you really think you'd be up for the job? The lady we had before you - Mrs Hudson, rest in peace - was a kind old dear who did all our cleaning but she was quite close friends with Sherlock so put up with him and his antics...he's not too happy about me renting out her old flat, so I don't know how he'd react to someone else -"

"He can't be _that_ bad," She said, "He seems pretty incredible to me..."

"Well, he did survive his own suicidal jump off a five storey building," I laughed, "I still to this day have no idea how he did it."

"I planned to survive it, John." Sherlock said, arriving in the room again and flopping down on the sofa, "You know that."

"Hang on a second," Nikki said, "Suicide?"

"Oh, please, you've heard of it, you said so yourself. It's been all over the news." Sherlock dismissed, "I faked my own death. Long story. No time for it now. Questions later. Now, I could really use some _tea_."

Sherlock turned his eyes on me expectantly, his pale fingertips pressed together.

"Oh, I guess I'll get it, shall I?" I asked sarcastically.

"John, how kind of you to offer!" He said.

I gave him a warning glare as I left the room, muttering about how Sherlock had just been in the kitchen, and I didn't see why he couldn't have put the kettle on himself...


	3. Chapter 3

"So..." I said to Sherlock after seeing Nikki out, "What do you think?"

"She's...interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Yes. _Interesting_."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean she wasn't as dull, boring and self-obsessed as the rest of the applicants that have replied to your silly little advert in the paper."

That made me smirk "You like her then?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"But I didn't _say_ it."

I said nothing in reply to that; Sherlock was as stubborn as a mule and as proud as a lion - he was not going to admit that he might actually be considering having Nikki Johnston live in the flat below us.

"Shall I ask her to move in then?" I asked politely.

He didn't answer to that. Suddenly he was busying himself with his laptop; flitting about the room like some obsessive-compulsive fairy as he waited for it to load.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Shall I tell Nikki that we want her to move in downstairs?"

He stared at his computer screen, scrolling down the page of his website at the people who were applying for his mind-blowing help. I huffed and waited impatiently for him to focus on me again - there was no way of getting his attention if he was distracted by his work. Not unless you throw something at him, that is. But I wasn't going to risk breaking the only lamp we had left because of Sherlock's ignorance. We couldn't afford it - not until we had someone paying the rent downstairs, that is...

I watched as Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He bent down low over the table, staring at the computer screen; his nose just inches away from it. I still wonder to this day how he managed to read it from that close a distance - or why he would want to. But I've learned, after living with him for so long, that you do not ask questions about Sherlock Holmes. The answers you get are either too complicated to understand, too dull to comprehend, or just too darn weird.

"_That_ is _brilliant_!" I heard him mutter to himself.

"What is?"

"A case, John!" Sherlock laughed, looking at me with that grin of his on his face - the grin that only appeared when some kind of horrible crime had taken place, "And my _god_ is it a good one!"

In one swift movement, Sherlock leapt across the room (nearly knocking me over in his haste), grabbed his scarf and coat from the hat stand and thrust the two items of clothing on.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" I enquired, trying to hide my irritation.

"Out."

"I'd guessed that."

"No time to explain John - there's a mystery to solve! I do love a good mystery..."

"So you're just leaving?"

"Even an average mind like yours should have been able to deduce that, John. Feel free to come too, if you wish."

"But what about Nikki...?"

"Do whatever you want!" He yelled.

And, with that, he slammed the door behind him.

I was left stood in the living room, wondering what the heck just happened.

It wasn't the first time.


	4. Chapter 4

I did manage to find Sherlock. Eventually.

After some difficulty in getting hold of him on his iPhone, and having a brief row with him, via text, about how inconvenient it was that he never answered the phone when I rang, Sherlock gave me the location of the crime scene where he currently was. Well, I say location. He gave me coordinates.

It was as if he enjoyed making life a little more difficult for me.

"Just give me the address, Sherlock!" I'd text him, irritated by how difficult he was being.

He'd then sent me back what, to begin with, I thought was some kind of joke. I'd told him that, too. Only after realising they were coordinates did Sherlock tell me that it really was necessary.

And, for once, I have to admit, his odd and seemingly over-complicated way of doing things really was essential this time.

Swindler Forest. That was where I was heading. It was just outside London, but seemed to take me forever to get there. I now saw the good side to Sherlock buying himself his own car with the money Mrs Hudson had left him too. Despite the fact I had sworn _never_ to get in the car (_especially_ if Sherlock was the one who was driving) I found myself grabbing the keys to the Range Rover from the side in the kitchen, shrugging on my jacket and heading out with Sherlock's coordinates being the only thing to guide me.

I was surprising myself with how much faith I had in him and his odd ways.

The trees were turning from green to brown with the approaching winter, and the dirt road that I was blindly following had become incredibly muddy from the downpours of rain that had happened on a daily basis for the past week or so. I thanked the heavens above once more for Sherlock's robust choice in vehicle. If it weren't for the Range Rover's great wheels, I knew I would have had a struggle getting along the track between the trees. There I was - bumping along over thick branches and rabbit holes and, at one point, driving at a forty-five-degree angle in a ditch - and all the while I couldn't believe what I was doing. It was Sunday: I could quite easily have stayed at home with my woollen-socked-feet up on the coffee table, with a hot cup of cocoa and a broadsheet newspaper; and perhaps have even left a message on Nikki's answering machine, telling her that Sherlock and I had agreed to her moving in downstairs (even though Sherlock's participation in the decision had been minimal). Yes; I could have done that quite easily. Quite happily, too.

But no. Here I was, yet again, following the great Mr Sherlock Holmes on some mad breadcrumb trail around London.

That's just what I do, I guess...

It was when I reached the end of the road and was greeted with the sight of a police car that I realised it was time to get out and walk.

It was a long and muddy trek to the crime scene - made worse by the fact that I hadn't come prepared with wellington boots. The floor had turned into some kind of bog in certain places, probably due to the amount of times the forensics team had traipsed back and forth...

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered to myself.

The only thing that kept me going was the thought of an interesting blog entry to write later in the evening.

At least my therapist would be happy - even if I was not.

Sherlock was bent over on the floor when I arrived. He was knelt on the leaf-covered ground, his little magnifying glass held out as he studied the left hand of the dead girl before him. She lay face-down - her young, fair face shoved carelessly in the mud - and her blonde hair matted together at the back in a frizzy, bloodied mass. She could not have been more than seventeen years old.

"Sherlock Holmes!" I yelled brusquely, marching up to him.

"Hm?" He said not looking up - uninterested.

"Do you mind telling me why the hell you ran off like that?"

"It's a regular occurrence John, I thought you'd be accustomed to it..."

"Yes. _Usually_ I would. However, because of your inability to wait for me I had to find my own way here -"

"I gave you coordinates."

"Yes. _Coordinates_. Do you know how many people these days actually _use_ coordinates? Not many! Us normal people use _postcodes_! Sat-Navs! Addresses! Not _coordinates-_!"

"I'm still failing to understand why you're so upset over all this."

"Just look at me!"

Finally, he did. And I think it was then clear to him why I was so annoyed. Since finding the police car at the end of the marked track, I had wandered on further into the woods - still as clueless as ever - and gotten a shoe stuck in one of the boggy messes. When trying to free said shoe, I had to completely take it off my foot and balance for quite a long period of time as I tried to get the stupid shoe out again. It had been so stuck, I'd had to use my hands. And, once freed, the sudden force had been so overwhelming to my already unbalanced state that I'd toppled backwards into the bog and completely covered my back with sludge. Then, after cursing I'd attempted to get up again. With my shoe back on (and a sock that was completely caked in the stuff) I had continued to stride forward - now rather distressed and annoyed. And then, just to top everything off, when I finally did manage to find the crime scene (after much confusion, searching, yelling and calling out - not to mention the amount of Boy Scout training I had to rack my brain to remember) I had stumbled among the leaves only to catch my _other_ foot in a rabbit hole.

In short: I was covered - my shoes, my jeans, my coat, my hands, my hair, my face - in mud.

At least, I hoped it was just mud.

"Oh." Was all Sherlock had to say, "I see you've taken a tumble, John."

He smirked up at me, and realised from the small chuckle from around me that followed that the rest of the investigation squad were listening in on my rant.

"_This is not funny Sherlock!_" I hissed, limping closer to him with my injured ankle as Sherlock moved to inspect the dead girl's face.

"It seems many others disagree..."

I huffed, "You're really annoying - you know that, right?"

"I believe you've mention it before," He answered. Then, half to himself, muttered; "hmm...now _that_ is interesting."

I watched, still trying to calm down, as Sherlock plucked something from under the victim's collar with a latex-gloved hand. He then stood and held it out in front of me.

"It's a piece of paper." I said.

"No, look closer John."

Irritated, I hastily rubbed my hands on my jacket in a poor attempt to rid them of dirt, then thrust on a glove so I could handle the scrap of evidence. I did as Sherlock expected me to do - I studied it. What I held in my hand was, in fact, a small rectangular piece of paper; no bigger than an inch long. It had been folded over once, imprecisely, and had splatters of dirt and blood on it. One edge was perfectly straight. The other three looked slightly feathered, as if they had been torn.

"What is it exactly I'm looking _for_?"

Sherlock scowled at me and whipped out his magnifying glass again. He held it between me and the artefact in my hand. It was then that I noticed, in one of the corners, the tiny remains of a half-torn letter 'a'.

"It's a note, John." Sherlock said, "The remains of a note; written by this girl, but torn apart by someone who didn't want anyone else to read it."

"So I was right. It is a piece of paper."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes; "A note." He said again.

"How do you know it was written by the girl?"

"She's left-handed," He said, "And the slight smearing of ink on the paper shows that it was written by a left-hander. I also found some graffiti she'd written on her arm - nothing important, by the looks of it - but the 'a' on the paper looks incredibly similar to that on her skin."

"So what are you suggesting?" I asked, getting a feeling that he was going somewhere with this.

"I'm not suggesting anything," Sherlock answered, "I'm saying that the other parts of that note must be around here somewhere, and we need to find them in order to figure out what it says."

"Okay then, you get on with that."

I was fully prepared for Sherlock to then insist that it was also my job to find these little scraps of paper. And even though I had all faith in him and what he was doing, I was not in the mood for running around the forest like some over-sized fairy as I tried snatching blown-away confetti note pieces as they blew about in the wind.

Luckily, just as Sherlock was about to open his big mouth, my phone rang.

"Hello?" I said, after digging around in my pocket with muddied hands for my mobile.

"Hi, um, John?"

"Yes, who's speaking please?" I heard Sherlock rallying up the rest of the investigation team. I covered my other ear with my free hand so as to block out his bossiness.

"It's M-" The voice stopped.

"Hello?" I said again, racking my brain for people I knew whose names began with 'M', "Hello, can you speak up please, I think there's bad reception."

"I said it's Nicola Johnston - y'know, from the interview this morning?"

Oh. 'N', not 'M'. I must've misheard...

"Oh Nikki, hi," I said, stumbling away from the others so as I wouldn't be overheard, "Strange, I was just thinking about you..."

"You were?"

"Yes, I -" I paused. Was it really best to tell her that I'd just seen a dead body with the same hair colour as her? "I just saw someone with a jumper like yours." I continued, "The knitwear, remember?" I laughed nervously.

"Ha ha, oh yes, I remember," She laughed, "Well, it's nice that you're thinking of me. I just rang to put in my formal application for that housekeeping add you had on your table this morning. As I already had your number, I figured I might as well get ahead of the game."

"GET OUT OF THE WAY ANDERSON!" Sherlock's voice echoed through the trees, "YOU'RE NOT HELPING! MOVE!"

"Sorry, that was just...some psychopath," I muttered shamefully. I was glad that Nikki found it so amusing, "but I'm glad you rang actually -" I glanced quickly over at Sherlock who was still yelling at Anderson for being such a pig headed idiot, and who was apparently "trampling on the evidence with his giant stupid feet" - "Um, yes," I continued to Nikki, "I had a talk with my flatmate and we've decided you're the best of the interviewees we've seen."

"Really? You...you want me to move in?"

"Yes, if that's alright," I laughed, "As long as you think you can put up with Sherlock and his antics..."

"Hmm, I think I'll manage," She said with a small chuckle.

"Great! So...shall we meet up tomorrow? To give you the keys, of course, not...um..."

I gulped and realised I was beginning to ramble a little. Thankfully, Nikki realised my embarrassment and began arranging a meeting place.

I then said goodbye and hung up the phone. I stared at the screen for a long moment, amazed that the most beautiful woman I had ever seen would soon be living in the flat below mine...

"ANDERSON, DO YOU WANT ME TO PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE?!"

"As if you even had the guts t-"

_Thud_.

My eyes widened in shock. Did I really have to sort out Sherlock and Anderson's childish squabbles? _Again_?

Exasperated, I shoved my mobile back in my pocket, turned on my heel, and prepared myself to drag Sherlock off Anderson by the ears if I had to.

I was _not_ going to allow him to leave us with two dead bodies to clear up on this crime scene.

Not after the carrot incident...

**(Author's Note**: Sorry it's taken me a while to update - been insanely busy recently. More to come soon though. Thank you for all the feedback - I love reading comments. Please share this with your friends if you think it's worthy :)**)**


	5. Chapter 5

"I did warn him." Sherlock later said when we were on the journey home in the car, "He should know by now that I don't threaten without intent."

I refused to even look at him as I drove the car down the winding country lane. In the rear-view mirror I got a glimpse of the muddy state I was in. I look away, annoyed.

"I thought you were bigger than this, Sherlock," I said, disappointed.

"What do you mean? He only got what he deserved. He was contaminating evidence..."

"That is _not_ a good reason to punch someone in the face, and then try to strangle them when they're down!"

"There's no rulebook."

"SHERLOCK!"

"Fine. Maybe it was a little uncalled for. But you know what Anderson's like. He's a twa-"

"That's enough!"

Sherlock crossed over his arms and stared out of the passenger-side window. I saw in the reflection that his face was serene. He wasn't sorry for what he'd done. And that was unsurprising.

And, to be honest, sometimes Anderson could be a bit of a tw-

"You know what's odd?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"That girl. She didn't have a mobile phone. I searched her all over. Couldn't find one."

"Yeah. So?"

"So everyone has a mobile phone nowadays. _Everyone_. A girl of her age wandering through the woods on her own without a mobile? She was practically asking to be murdered..."

I would have told him not to be so cold, but I knew it would do no good.

"Maybe she forgot it."

"No. She wouldn't have. She was an organised person. I found a shopping list in her back pocket. What kind of teenagers make lists? Organised ones."

He went silent for a long moment, his brows furrowed in concentration as he stared out of the window once more. There was a very long time where there was just silence. I could hear nothing but the sound of tires on tarmac. I would have put the radio on, but Sherlock had told me on more than one occasion that the inane drabble of a radio presenter was annoying.

"What's for dinner?"

I was surprised, "You mean you're actually hungry for once?"

"It may be a surprise to you John, but I am human-"

"Hmm, you're right that is a surprise," I muttered

"- And therefore I do have basic human needs. Food being one of them."  
"Well, I'm glad." I said, "What d'you fancy?"

"Fish fingers."

"Easy enough."

"And custard."

I look at him, "You've been watching _Doctor Who_ again, haven't you?"

He didn't answer me, just stared out the window. But I'm sure I noticed a small smirk in the reflection of the glass.

Well, I guess he needed to keep himself occupied somehow while I was at work - and watching _Doctor Who_ was probably the best thing so far, considering I wouldn't come home in the evening to find my flatmate in some kind of mortal peril. Unlike the past couple of times...

I really do need to confiscate that blow torch of his...when I find out where he hides it...


	6. Chapter 6

Nikki and I had agreed to meet in _Speedy's_: the cafe and sandwich bar that was, handily, right next to the flat. It was raining when I arrived - typical British weather - and the hard droplets pounded against the windows of the place. Other diners (if you can call coffee-drinkers and cake-nibblers that) sat looking miserably out at the street; hunching over damp newspapers - some still in their dripping raincoats. A few turned to look at me as I merrily swung open the door, causing the bell to ding. It appeared that my good mood was not welcome in the land of soggy sandwiches - although this didn't affect my cheerfulness in any way.

I looked at the clock as I walked through the door - one o'clock, on the dot. I was right on time.

Over the phone, Nikki had promised she would already be there when I arrived - sworn it, in fact. But as I looked at the faces that sat around the tables, not one of them displayed the gleaming smile that I was looking for. It was surprising how much this saddened me. But, in the self-assured knowledge that she would be there soon, I chose a table by the window and joined some of my fellow "diners" in looking out at the water-drenched street.

I don't know how long I sat there before someone interrupted me. I was wrapped up deeply in my own thoughts for some time, it seemed. I began thinking about Nikki and our conversations the previous day: her fitted jumper and the way she had reacted after discovering I was _the_ John Watson. It was a confusing topic for me. Her application for the flat showed she was twenty-six, but compared to the other young adults I knew of, Nicola Johnston was by far the most mature. She had her head on straight. I found it easy to converse with her. And even though I found myself unable to look away from her when she was speaking, a part of my mind told me it was wrong for me to admire her. I was in my late thirties after all. I was over ten years older than her. She wouldn't want a man like me when there was so many other men in London nearer her age. I was just her landlord. And if my face aged any more, that was all I would ever be...

"Hello there sir, can I get you anything?"

It was a waitress. In my far-off thoughts, I hadn't noticed her arrive.

"Oh, nothing thanks." I said, inattentively, and only briefly glanced at her before looking out of the window again, "I'm just waiting for someone."

There was a giggle; "It's me, stupid."

At that point I looked up.

"Nikki!" I said, surprised, standing up suddenly to greet her and knocking over my chair in doing so.

"Nice to see you, too, John." She laughed.

I gave an embarrassed chuckle in return as I picked up the chair - ignoring the frowns that were sent in my direction by the soggy-sandwich-eaters. It made me laugh that I could have been so stupid. Of course - _of course_ - it was Nikki.

"I'm sorry," I apologised, "I was in a world of my own for a minute there. Please, sit down."

With a smirk, she did so, and immediately began chatting with me. We discussed her work at Speedy's, and how she hadn't ever dreamed of being a waitress - she just needed the money. That was why she'd mentioned the housekeeper placement too when she noticed it. We discussed my work at the local clinic. We discussed Sherlock's work, and his own made-up profession. I was careful not to mention anything of the case just yet - I knew it wouldn't go down well with Scotland Yard if they found out Nikki knew important information about recent cases. We discussed movies, music, food, hobbies - and before I knew it, it was four o'clock.

"Ah, damn," I muttered, after glancing at my watch.

"Is everything alright?" Nikki asked.

"I need to get back to the flat." I said apologetically, "If I'm out for more than a few hours, Sherlock tends to get bored and starts tearing up the furniture like some kind of animal..."  
She laughed; "That's figurative, I hope?"

I didn't actually answer her question - I simply laughed back in return. I didn't really want to have to admit that the last time I had to work over-time at the clinic, I came hope to Sherlock sat at the top of the stairs clutching a hammer (which is scary in itself), only to later discover he had had a row with the BT Vision Box in the living room...So long, digital TV.

"Um, so when will I next see you?" I asked, as we both stood up and made our way towards the door.

"That entirely depends on when you want me to move in."

"Next Wednesday?"

"Alright, I'll see you then!"

We then shook hands in such an overly-formal fashion that it caused us both to giggle like school children. I stood in the rain and watched her walk down the street, with her jacket pulled over her head.

Then, with a heavy sigh, I turned and entered 221B.

I didn't believe I'd ever had a better afternoon.


	7. Chapter 7

7

"Don't bother taking your coat off," Sherlock said to me the second I entered the flat.

"Well, a good afternoon to you too, Sherlock."

I stood on the threshold as he busied himself about; wrapping his scarf about his neck, sliding his phone into his pocket then quickly checking his laptop before slamming it shut - all in one impressively smooth motion.

"Is...everything okay?"

"We're going out."

"We are?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Investigation."

As much as I hated myself for doing so, I had to ask: "Where is it this time?"

"The body's been identified. Stephanie Marker. Seventeen years old. Her mother's at Scotland Yard right now."

"So...?"

"We're going to question her."

Ten minutes later, after a short taxi ride, and an even shorter exchange of abuse between Sherlock and a broken-nosed Anderson, Sherlock and I were sat in an interrogation room with Mrs Marker.

She was a plump woman, and wore a badly-fitted, flowery blouse that looked over-worn, (and as if it had been around in the 70s), along with a pleated, ankle-length skirt (also from some age long, long ago). Her hair was unkempt, greying, and frizzy, and her gaze was unimpressed. It didn't look as if she cared very much for the situation she was in, nor anyone who presented themselves in front of her.

"Mrs Marker; I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner Dr John Watson-"

"Colleague." I corrected, holding out a hand for her to shake. She look at it in disgust.

"-we're here to ask you a few questions about your daughter."

"I know why you're 'ere," She said bluntly, "And I've had enough damn questions about me bloody daughter, thank you very much. Your folk've been comin' in 'ere an' questionnin' me all mornin'. When can I go 'ome?"

"We don't work with the police," I explained. "We're more-"

"Consultants." Sherlock finished.

"You mean like private investigators?" She asked.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well I ain't payin' you nuffin'." She spat, crossing her arms across her chest.

"We're not here to be paid, Mrs Marker," Sherlock said, with an edge to his voice that showed he was running low on patience, "We're here to try and figure out what happened to your daughter. Is there anything you can tell us about the day before your daughter went missing? When did you notice she was gone?"

"I didn't notice." She answered bluntly.

"What do you mean? You didn't see her leave?"

"No, I didn't notice she went missin'."

I glanced at Sherlock to see his reaction to this; his brow was furrowed in concentration, but he didn't appear affected by what Mrs Marker had just said.

"How could you not notice that your daughter had gone missing?" I said, as politely as I could.

"Why would it be any different for me? I ain't seen the girl in two years. She ran away when she was fifteen, 'case me and her dad was rowin', and she refused to come back. I didn't report it - she rang me on her phone every week, so I knew she was safe. Told me she was livin' with a friend of hers until everythin' got sorted. Then she'd come back."

"But she didn't?"

"Nah. By that time she was sixteen, and said that 'cause she was a woman now she wanted to make her own way."

"And what did you think of this?"

"I was fine with it. She had a good point. I'd moved out of my mam and dad's 'ouse when I was sixteen, so I thought it was just as well she did the same. Wanted nothin' to do with me after that, it seemed. Wouldn't answer her phone to me, nor visit at all. She just sorta stopped callin'."

"Thank you, Mrs Marker," Sherlock suddenly put in, after spending the last few minutes in silence, "I think we have all we need."

I watched as Sherlock stood, confused as to why he had cut the interview so short. Without a word he headed towards the door. I followed him out into the corridor.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? We hardly asked her anything!"

"No need to waste our time asking anything else either," He said, "You heard her - she hasn't seen her daughter in two years; what use is she going to be with clues for the recent murder of her daughter?"

"She could have given us idea of what Stephanie was like-"

"No. She couldn't. The yellow stains on her fingertips, the reek of spirits on her out-dated clothes and that bored expression of hers says it all. She didn't care about her daughter - most likely an unwanted accident in the first place. She can't afford clothes from this decade because she spends it all on cigarettes and booze - how could she have found time to bond with her daughter with such addictive habits to keep up? She discovered her daughter was murdered this morning - don't you think a responsible mother would be a little upset about that? And yet there wasn't a tear in her eye, nor a tissue in her pocket. Mrs Marker is of no help to us, as she was no help to Stephanie. Whoever led the girl out into the forest knew she was easy prey - she comes from a broken home. But that would most likely mean she has trust issues. So the only reason a young, unloved girl would be led into the woods at that time of night would be because she thought she could trust the person she was meeting. You see, John? Mrs Marker has told us all she can with those blackened teeth of hers - time to move on."

I stopped in the corridor in my shock and awe. Sherlock strode past me without a second glance. I watched as his lanky frame disappeared through the front door of the building as if the recent interview had never happened. He hailed a cap, and without checking to see if I was coming to, got in and drove off.

I shook my head slowly, feeling my brain ache from all the information I was trying to make sense of. Even after all this time, it was still difficult for me to make sense of all of Sherlock's lightening deductions. There was a time when I questioned him on his theories, but there's only so many times a man can be proved wrong before he gives up.

Lucky for him, I hadn't been planning on going straight home. Instead, I hailed my own cab, and asked the driver to stop off at St Bart's Hospital.


	8. Chapter 8

8

I don't think I've ever pictured a morgue as anything other than a very cold, clean and bleak place.

To be honest, I don't think a morgue exists that _isn't_ any of the above. The one at St Bart's certainly fits in with the stereotypical view of things, anyway. Thanks to Sherlock, my frequent presence at the hospital was not questioned, and I was able to traipse down to the morgue with no confrontation at all. When I entered, I was met with the warm smile of Molly Hooper - the only woman I know who could spend every day of her life around dead bodies, and still manage to stay cheery nonetheless.

She was a frail little thing, with hazel-brown eyes, a quiet voice, and long red-brown hair that she frequently tied back to keep it out of the way. I don't think there's ever been an occasion (other than one Christmas eve) where I've seen her in anything but her lab coat. Despite her timid nature though, Molly is probably one of the nicest girls I've ever met. She's been helpful with cases since the start, and doesn't mind being called in to work at two in the morning - as long as there's a promise of seeing Sherlock, that is...

On this particular late afternoon, Molly was just "closing up shop", so to speak, when I arrived. She was in the process of zipping up a body bag when I said good afternoon.

"Hello John" She said with a welcoming smile, "How are you?"

"I'm good thank you Molly," I said, "I was just wondering whether I could take a look at Scotland Yard's latest?"

"You mean Stephanie Marker?" She said, and I noticed her happiness waver slightly, "Yes, of course, I can get her back out...again," She sighed, "Anything particular you're looking for?"

"No, I just..." I shook my head and forced another smile as Molly went over to the wall; trying to remember which hole Stephanie was in.

I was going to tell Molly about the interview we'd just had with Mrs Marker, and how Sherlock had deduced that she had been a neglectful mother. I wanted to say that I found it saddening how a woman could just disregard their child in such a way, and that I didn't understand how a parent could simply do a thing like that. I wasn't a father, I didn't have any children of my own, but I still found it impossible to image that someone could have a child and then simply not love he or she as if they were the only person in the world. It perplexed me in a way that I couldn't understand, and even _angered_ me somehow. Upon hearing Mrs marker say she "didn't notice" her daughter's disappearance, I had wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Because I couldn't help but think, in the depths of my mind, that if that woman had shown her daughter some love and compassion, then maybe, _just maybe_, she would still be alive right now. She could have saved a life simply by _loving_. That was what annoyed me. And what was saddest of all, was that Stephanie Marker probably died in the knowledge that her parents did not care for her as much as they could...

I was on the verge of saying all of this to Molly, before deciding that it was information she didn't need to know. It couldn't be easy doing what she did for a living. She didn't need the heartbreaking image of a teenage girl, alone and sobbing in her room, while her parents fought downstairs in their drunken state.

"Here we are," Molly said, pulling out the large metal tray that Stephanie lay on.

Now that she had been stripped and cleaned, she looked more like a child than ever before. Her blonde hair was slicked back, away from her pale forehead; her skin ghostly pale and cold. When I looked at her, all I could think of was that she was young enough to be my own child.

Just _seventeen_...

"She was quite pretty, wasn't she?" Molly said, from my left, "Looks a bit like a friend I used to have when I was at school..."

I quickly rolled on a pair of rubber gloves and delicately moved the girl's head. There, I saw the gash that I had noticed at the crime scene; no longer messy and bloodied, and surrounded by a mass of matted hair. Molly had shaved a small patch of the girl's head to allow easier accessibility of the wound. It had been cleaned, too.

"Was this the only marking on her?" I asked.

"It was the cause of death, if that's what you mean," She answered, "But I also found some bruising on her upper arms, torso, and back of neck too."

Molly moved the plastic sheeting away from the girl to enable me to see what she was talking about. Large, purple bruises contrasted against Stephanie's white skin to the highest degree.

"There was a struggle?" I asked.

"It seems." Molly said, then pursed her lips briefly, "It's quite sad really, isn't it? She was so young after all."

"But the bruising," I said, trying to focus more on the case than the teenager involved, "Any clues as to why they struggled, or how she was attacked?"

I leaned away from the body and indicated to Molly that I'd seen all I needed to see. She answered my question whilst pushing the body back into the wall.

"I don't know exactly how it happened," Molly said, "But she wasn't expecting to be jumped on, that's for certain. The results of the post-mortem show that she was hit on the back of the head from behind, but not hard enough to kill her instantly - she was just sort of dazed, maybe knocked out but we can't be sure. She was then sexually abused, and the bruising was caused by her struggle to get away. Once the culprit was, um, _finished_, shall we say - she bled out. I don't think it would have taken long though."

I stood there, aghast for a minute, before I could give a response to what Molly had said.

"I know," She said, with a sour expression, "Horrible, isn't it?" She then gave a nervous laugh and whipped off her latex gloves.

"Yeah, I'll say..." I agreed, before giving a long exhale in my tiredness, "Well, thanks for that Molly. I think I've, er...I think I've got everything I came for...and more, it seems..."

I left the room, trying to blink away the images that seemed to be now ever-printed on the insides of my eyelids. I couldn't wait until this case was over - solved and put in a drawer like the rest of them before it. I couldn't wait until I could get home and go to bed...I couldn't wait until I saw Nikki, and she did her magic trick of taking away all that was bad things that were on my mind, and replacing them with laughter and in-depth conversations about knitted jumpers on rainy afternoons.

I was stopped briefly by Molly in the corridor, who had forgotten to ask me to give a message to Sherlock about a party or something like that, before stepping out of the hospital and into the street. It was dark outside now, but as it was London, there was no less amount of traffic on the road. I'm not sure why, but for some reason I just stood there for a minute; oblivious to the vast amount of life that was going on around me, and looked up at the stars. They twinkled above me; bright and beautiful against the blackened sky that surrounded them.

I thought about the day I'd had, and the things I'd seen in the past week, and the nightmares that might follow because of it. I thought about Stephanie Marker, and how terrified and lost she must have felt in her last few moments. I thought about her mother, and my irritation towards her.

But then I thought about Nikki. And for one, amazing, fleeting moment, I felt so much better about everything.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock and I watched Doctor Who that evening. Despite how much Sherlock insisted it was completely illogical, he didn't leave the room or try to turn over the channel when I put it on BBC 1. Unlike every other programme I liked to watch - _Top Gear_, _The Big Bang Theory_, the Rugby, _The Great British Bake-off_ - I knew this was one that Sherlock secretly enjoyed.

He didn't fail to bring up the argument about how the TARDIS was a scientific impossibility... again.

I didn't fail to tell him, in depth, that it was all completely valid, considering the whole thing was fictional...again.

"Oh yes, and before I forget," I said after it had finished, "Molly wanted me to ask you-"

"No."

"You haven't even heard what it-"

"She wants me to go to her cousin's wedding with her. The answer's 'no'."

"But Sherlock, you know Molly likes you. You could at least _pretend_ you're interest-"

"_No_."

I huffed. "You're impossible." I muttered,.

"I think you mean 'improbable'."

I smirked at his fastidious behaviour, but said no more on the subject. Although I would have loved to make Molly's day, and return her for the favours she'd done for Scotland Yard over the years, I knew that there was no point in trying - Sherlock would not go if he didn't want to, and Molly's efforts were always almost guaranteed to fail; Sherlock did not appreciate female attention.

Speaking of female attention: Nikki moved in the following Wednesday, like we agreed. I told her that Sherlock and I would help her unpack, although on the day the curly haired git was nowhere to be found. It meant extra work for us, but I didn't really mind, considering I got to spend the day getting to know her. She told me about her childhood - where she had grown up, where she had gone to school, and funny anecdotes from her youth that she could remember. In return I told her about my sister Harry, and about how I had come to live with Sherlock, and some of the adventures I had embarked on since becoming his colleague. We laughed, we joked, we teased. And at one point I thought I felt her eyes on me when I bent down to pick up a box - but as I couldn't be certain, I put it down to my imagination.

A few weeks passed, and Nikki began her job as housekeeper. It took her a while to get used to finding Sherlock's "experiments" hidden here and there about the flat, but other than that she appeared to fit in quite well. Sherlock was still a little stand-offish at first, and although he didn't complain about her presence, he didn't make Nikki's job easy for her. I thought at one point that I'd have to sit them down together to sort out their differences - but, more surprisingly than anything I have ever seen, I came home one day to find Nikki blissfully watching _Friends_ on the TV, with Sherlock in the bathroom, on his hands and knees, in marigolds, scrubbing the bathtub clean. I never did find out exactly what happened, and Sherlock wouldn't discuss it whatsoever. But Nikki simply said:

"I gave him a taste of his own medicine".

I don't know what went on, but Sherlock hasn't bothered her since.

Nikki did have a few scepticisms about mine and Sherlock's ..."living habits", shall we say. To begin with, I insisted that her thoughts were incorrect, but after a while it got harder for me to convince her that there was nothing going on between Sherlock and I. I don't know whether Sherlock was doing it all intentionally, but there were definitely more actions that could be mistaken as homosexual liking than normal for him.

When Nikki walked in on him giving me the Heimlich manoeuvre, for instance: he kept at it for just a few seconds longer than need be; just at the moment Nikki walked in (only to turn bright pink in the face, and dash out again, muttering her apologies). There was also the time I was in the shower, only to have Sherlock enter the room in nothing but a dressing gown, grab his toothbrush before exiting yelling "Thanks for that, John!"

It was only afterwards when Nikki explained her view of things that I realized how it could have been mistaken for something else...

And then there was the time I was lounging quite happily on the sofa, only to have Sherlock spring on me and insist he was checking my irises for some kind of experiment. Of course, because of my luck, it was at this exact moment Nikki arrived home with the shopping. The first thing she saw was Sherlock straddling me, with his face pressed against mine, as I grabbed his torso to try and throw him off. The sight made her stop mid-sentence before she simply averted her eyes and headed into the kitchen.

By this time she was no longer shocked by seeing myself and Sherlock in compromising positions - and this was not a good thing. It only made it harder for me to convince her nothing was going on.

"It's okay, John . I get it," She said, patting me on the shoulder comfortingly, "If you're not ready to come out yet - it's fine. Take all the time you need."

When she said this to me, all I could hear was Sherlock chuckling to himself from across the room as he sat at his laptop. Nikki then kissed me on the cheek as if I was a well-behaved child, then left the room. I then threw a cushion at Sherlock's face to shut him up.

However, even though my fictitious relationship with Sherlock was forever puzzling me, at least I was not alone. Mr Holmes himself was having troubles deciphering the case, and there had been no new leads after Mrs Marker. AS bad as it might sound, I really hoped something could happen soon to make the days and nights a bit more interesting...

And it did. Well...for me, at least.

The three of us were sat in the living room one Saturday afternoon. Nikki was reading, and I was listening to Sherlock's rambling monologue as he searched his Mind Palace for a clue he might not have registered, while the two of us played a game of Rubix Cube throw and catch (I muddle it up, throw it at him, and he solves it and throws it back - it gets boring quickly when playing with a mastermind). I wasn't really listening to him and I was getting exceedingly bored. It was then, as Nikki turned over a page in her book, that she seemingly absentmindedly said:

"Fancy going out for a drink tonight?"

It wasn't specified who the question was aimed at, but Sherlock kept murmuring continuously, and Nikki looked up at me expectedly.

"M-me?"

"Yes you, silly. Who else would I be talking to?"

I went to say Sherlock, but after looking over at him muttering to himself as he inattentively solved the Rubix Cube, I realised it was stupid to question Nikki at all.

"It's just I've been in this part of town for nearly a month now, and I feel like I need to get out of the flat and go somewhere - but I don't really know anyone but you two and the people down at Speedy's." She closed her book and took her glasses off, "So...what d'you say?"

I have to say I was a little taken aback. It wasn't exactly what I had been expecting to hear.

"Oh, um...sure," I agreed.

"It would be a simple getting-to-know-the-landlord kind of thing, of course," She said.

"Of course."

"And I'm not crossing a line here? I hate to seem-"

"Oh no, don't be ridiculous. It would be nice to get to know the person who's living in the room below Sherlock and I - without the crazy bastard being around, that is."

She and I laughed at that - for Sherlock didn't appear to have noticed the insult at all. However, as I turned to Nikki to ask her where we were going, Sherlock threw the Rubix Cube back at me. It hit me in the back of the head.

"For god's sake Sherlock!"

He smirked at me. Nikki burst out laughing.


	10. Chapter 10

It was seven o'clock. I'd just gotten out of the shower. I was stood in the bathroom, a towel round my waist, as I stared at my complexion in the mirror.

I had no idea what I was doing.

For all I knew, Nikki could really just want a simple get-to-know-the-landlord evening with a simple glass or wine and a nice long conversation full of the customary social pleasantries, similar to those that one might have with their boss at a slightly awkward Christmas meal.

But another part of me was hoping it was really Nikki's way of asking me out on a date, and there would be three or four glasses of wine involved, with conversations that consisted of flirtatious behaviour, and perhaps put down the basic foundations of what could possibly be a future relationship.

But right now I couldn't seem to stop staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I still had it, didn't I? Not that I ever really understood what "it" was in the first place, but I was pretty sure I did. It had been a few months since I had been on a date with a girl - nine and a half weeks, if I'm not mistaken - and the last one had not ended well; but the fact that I'd managed to get the date in the first place proves that this "it" that everyone talks about was in my possession...

My reflection didn't appear to be agreeing with me.

In my mind I was trying to be open-minded and optimistic; the inspirational prep-talk I was giving my reflection started out pretty well, in fact. However the face that stared back at me, with his damp hair flat to his forehead, and tired eyes that showed just how many bad night's sleep he'd had in his lifetime did not seem to be motivated at all by the words being said - particularly as it progressed...

"If she likes me, she likes me." I muttered to myself, "If not, then she doesn't. Simple facts, John. Simple facts that you will have to come to terms with, either way. Just act like you're the boss - like you know exactly which page she's on, and that you wrote that page with your own hand, then typed it up and printed it off and sent it off to a publishers...speaking of writing, I really need to type up those case notes - they're still in my notebook...where is my notebook anyway? I hope I haven't left it near Sherlock's Bunsen burner again, because that was a bad mistake last time - No! _Focus_ John! honestly! Where was I? Ah yes: be the "it" that wrote the publisher...no, that's not it...be the publisher that owns the girl...oh gosh, that's not right either. What am I even saying? I've gone mad. I'm talking to my own reflection..."

It was then that I just gave up. I looked at the man that was mimicking my every move, and just sighed: "Don't get your hopes up." I said, "She's _way_ out of your league."

Sherlock was reading the paper with his back to me when I entered the living room; now fully dressed.

"Someone's trying too hard," He murmured, "I could smell that aftershave of yours before you opened the bathroom door."

"Shut up, Sherlock," I said, out of habit, "You've never even been on a date."

Sherlock went quiet.

Meanwhile, I went back to the bathroom to wash the aftershave off my face...

At eight o'clock, Nikki and I left the building and headed down the street together. She wasn't wearing anything particularly fancy - jeans and a smart-ish shirt - but looked stunning nonetheless.

"You look nice," I said, a little gauche.

"You don't look too bad yourself." She said with a good-humoured smile.

We didn't go anywhere particularly fancy either - just the "local watering hole", like she had asked. It was quite busy, being Saturday night and everything, but we managed to get two stools at the bar and I went to order us drinks, only to have Nikki beat me to it:

"Two pints of bitter," She said. It was clear she'd done it before.

That was where our night of conversation began; starting at when her father had first given her a sip of beer when she was five, and as a teenager she'd always preferred it to the lady's elegant glass of wine. We exchanged drinking stories, and next-day regrets, and alcoholic favourites. It was then that the young fellows across the bar from us decided to start taking shots...

"I've never been one for shots, really," Nikki said to me, "You get too drunk too fast and only feel sorry for yourself when you get a killer of a hangover the next day."

"Never tried one." I said honestly.

She turned to me: "Never?"

"Never."

Three minutes later, this fact was changed.

"Woo!" Nikki yelled as she downed hers, then ruffled her hair and burst into a fit of giggles, "Doesn't that make you feel young!"

"If feeling young is like having your throat burned," I croaked, "then yes, definitely!" I paused; the horrible taste still lingering in my mouth and the back of my throat, "Ugh. That was horrible..."

"Yes, I know how you feel," She laughed and rubbed my shoulder blades, "Being thirty five and everything, I think I'm nearing the stage where I just don't get out as much as I used to - who's to say that if you can't party if you're not the youth of the day!"

"Thirty five?" I asked.

"Hmm?"

"You just said you were thirty five."

"I did?"

"Yes. Just then." I tried to make it sound light-hearted with a laugh, and an inquisitive smile, but I think the overall confusion came through.

"Oh, um...silly me," She chuckled, embarrassed, "Another round?"

"Hang on a second," I said, stopping her from getting the attention of the barman, who I certainly did not want to give me another miniature glass of liquid-fire to pour down my gullet, "Nikki, you're _not_ twenty-six?"

"Erm..well, _technically_ no. I mean...on my birth certificate it sort of says I'm thirty five...sort of..."

"But what about the application form? Your driver's licence?"

"What can I say?" She sighed, clearly embarrassed, "If a girl's going to lie about her age, she's going to make herself younger, isn't she?"

"Can I ask why?"

I noticed that she went to give me a proper answer, but then changed her mind, took another sip of her beer, then shrugged: "I've always looked young for my age." She answered, "I thought; why not make the best of it?"

It didn't seem like a plausible excuse to me, but I sensed that if I questioned her further that our wonderful evening could turn into a night we didn't want to remember. Plus, I was getting a little tipsy, and so this minor thing didn't seem to be an issue to me at present.

"Amen to that!" I said rather loudly, gulping some more beer down, and when she called the barman over to give us our third pint, I didn't stop her. I simply laughed and said:

"You have no idea how glad I am that you didn't order another round of shots."

Thankfully, she laughed too, and we proceeded to watch the guys across the bar as they quickly got wobblier and wobblier, until one of them finally fell over. The man was not helped up again; instead, his collapse was met with a raucous cheer and a round of applaud and laughter.

"I bet you'd be like that if you had another couple," Nikki said teasingly.

"Would not," I insisted, "I'll have you know I can hold my liquor - I was quite the partier in my time."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes," I said, feeling myself get a little bit more tipsy as I took another gulp of beer, "When I was twenty three I went to Spain for a weekend - all I remember is arriving at the hotel on the first day and heading to the bar. I was told afterwards that I'd made the holiday a great one for the five mates I went with - dancing on table, getting everyone involved, karaoke (apparently) - the whole shebang!"

"I don't believe that!" She laughed.

"It's true, honestly!" I exclaimed.

"Go on then," She said, with a daring smile.

"What?"

"Dance on the table, get everyone partying - do something _crazy_!"

"Ah, I don't think so..."

"Come on - _please_?"

"I'm sorry, no..."

"For me?"

It didn't matter how much she stuck out her bottom lip in her pretend-sulk. I wasn't going to show off for her. I wasn't a teenager. We were both mature adults and we didn't need to have something crazy and exciting going on in order to have fun. We could converse, like all grown-ups did, and share stories and laugh and talk about...politics or something. But I wasn't going to do something crazy for her.

Ten minutes later, I was grabbing Nikki's arm and sprinting down the street with her. Behind us thundered the drunken guys from across the bar that had been doing shots. They couldn't run straight, what with them all being hammered and one of them having a bloody nose and all - but that didn't mean the six of them were any less terrifying as a group. If I hadn't been a little drunk myself, I wouldn't have been laughing at all, and the little voice in my head that was saying "You are _so_ going to die" would have been a lot louder. But as I was holding hands with Nikki, and she was laughing, and I was laughing, and the two of us were just caught up in the adrenaline of it all - I felt like a child again that had gotten caught trying to steal a yoghurt off the milkman's cart; sprinting wherever my legs took me, with the full knowledge that I would be the hero of the kids on the block for the next week.

We amazingly managed to out-run the lot of them when the leader of the group ran into a lamp post and caused those following him to topple over too. Nikki and I kept on running through the streets like children, until we got to the front door of the flat at Baker Street. I grabbed the keys as Nikki grabbed my arm and jumped up and down excitedly, exclaiming how amazing it had all been.

_'That'_, The voice of reason in my head promised itself, as the door opened, _'is the very last time I show off for a girl._'


	11. Chapter 11

"Are you sure that hand of yours is going to be okay?" Nikki asked me as she slumped down on the sofa next to me, and handed me a bag of frozen peas for my knuckles, "we don't need to take you to the hospital, do we?"

"No, I shouldn't think so." I said, surveying my right hand, "It doesn't look broken to me. Just a little bruised - but it's not the first time I've punched someone."

"It's not? How many fights do you get into?"

I chuckled at that, "Well, when you work with Sherlock, quite a few - running into an aggressive criminal is an expectation, really."

"So who was the last guy you punched?"

I thought about it...

"Sherlock."

"Really?!"

"Can you blame me?"

"Well..." She said, handing me a bottle of wine to uncork, "I'm just a little surprised, that's all."

I was sure she was trying to get me drunk. I was already tipsy and this was a full bottle of wine I was uncorking as I spoke - not that I was complaining. I'd only have a glass, then go upstairs to fall asleep in my bed, to wake up with a minor headache and a very sore hand...

"Why are you surprised?" I asked, pouring out the wine.

"Y'know..._because_..." She stopped and raised her eyebrows, "You and Sherlock..."

"You know we're really not gay," I told her, handing her a glass, with a laugh.

"Really?" She said, disbelievingly.

"Really!" I assured her, "Honestly, there is nothing going on between me and Sherlock. We're just friends. Close friends, I'll admit that, but people make assumptions nowadays when two men share a flat, and I have to admit it's not the first time someone's made the presum-"

But then I found my words were cut off suddenly, for something stopped my lips from moving.

It was Nikki.

She kissed me.

I sat there for a minute, quite shocked; the bottle of wine still poised in my hand from where I had been refilling our glasses. Nikki stared back at me, trying to judge my reaction.

Well.

I had _not_ been expecting _that_.

"Sorry," Nikki finally whispered. She cleared her throat and leaned back away from me again, "I'm sorry, that...that wasn't appropriate. I don't know what came over me..."

But then I myself did something that was entirely unexpected - entirely out of character for me. Without looking away from her, I placed the wine bottle back on the coffee table. I placed a hand on the side of her face.

I kissed her back.

It was strange really, after telling myself for weeks and weeks that something along the lines of this was never going to happen. After telling myself not to go for her. And yet, after all the repetitive thinking and self-control that I had put myself through, it had turned out that Nikki had had a thing for the old doctor after all...

We kissed one another over and over; cautiously and caringly as we sat there together on the sofa in the still atmosphere of Nikki's flat. I loved the feeling of her lips against mine. Being with her was different to the other women I had once called girlfriends - because I knew Nikki better. I felt comfortable around her; felt happy just being in the same room as her, simply because of the smile she brought to my face.

I felt her fingers run through my hair, and placed a hand on her thigh. It had been a while since I had kissed a woman - but those kind of things, you never really forget. Like swimming or riding a bike, I just knew what to do. And it appeared she did too.

So perhaps the actions of affection she displayed towards me weren't of friendship, as I had thought, but of something more. Of something more deep and meaningful...or lustful, I couldn't be sure - and, at that moment, I wasn't particularly bothered. But she appeared to be enjoying herself, and I have to say I felt exactly the same. This evening was turning out to be far better than I had expected it to be...

"John, I need to tell you something..." Nikki muttered as she kissed my jaw.

"Mm?" I said, kissing her back.

I tried to pull away, so as it didn't seem like I was taking advantage of her, and so I could listen to her properly - I wanted to be a gentleman - but every time I tried, she would kiss me again. Who would I be complain?

"It can wait for a bit," She murmured, and ran her hands through my hair again.

We were just getting really into it when our little bubble of happiness was shattered...

"John! I need you! Now!"

I broke away and closed my eyes in irritation. For once, just once, couldn't Sherlock let me have an evening in peace?

"Just ignore him," I whispered to Nikki, and kissed her again.

But the curly-haired sociopath was persistent. He banged on the front door to Nikki's flat.

"John! NOW! This is important!"

"I'm a little busy at the moment, Sherlock!"

"No you're not."

Nikki giggled. I laughed nervously. I wanted Sherlock to leave us alone.

"I think what he meant to say was that he'd rather not leave the flat right now," She explained.

"Yes, exactly," I agreed.

There was a pause.

"Nikki, dear?" Sherlock asked politely from behind the door, "Would you mind letting me in for just a moment? I need to speak to John. It won't take a second."

I felt her go to get up, but pushed her back slightly.

"Don't," I warned.

"He only wants to talk."

"If you let him in here, he's won't leave. If he wants to talk to me, he can do it from where he is."

Nikki smirked at me, but batted my hand off her thigh playfully and got up to answer the door. Sherlock swept in, collar already high, leather gloves on, and I knew straight away that this was not going to be a quick visit. He wanted to go out. Now. And I was expected to follow him.

I watched as his eyes quickly scanned the room. He saw the wine bottle, half-empty. He saw my crooked shirt collar, and the few buttons that Nikki had undone, as far as my jumper would let her. He saw Nikki's choice of dress. Her lipstick - on my face.

I could tell by his expression that he did not approve.

"Hm." He said, "John, when you say 'busy', next time maybe you should be more specific."

"I was being vague for a reason."

"Yes. I see that."

"What do you _want_ Sherlock?"

"Another body's been found - Crotchety park, near a housing estate just outside the south of London. Strangled."

"Yes? And?"

"You need to come with me to the scene."

"I don't _need_ to Sherlock, and I'm not going to. Nikki and I are having a quiet night in and I would _appreciate_ it, if you would leave. us. _alone_."

I met his eyes with an expectant stare, but he still didn't move - not even an inch. Getting-off with Nikki was one of my priorities right now, and the hand that lingered on my knee made me hesitant to follow Sherlock on another adventure...but I did want to solve this case...I wanted to save any other lives that might be at risk, and put the criminal behind bars...

But I also sensed that Nikki did not want me to go. And, to be quite frank, neither did I.

I knew Sherlock would not give in easily, and saw the muscles around his eyes tighten in annoyance. But even though I was sure we would either argue or have some kind of sissy-fight in the middle of Nikki's living room, another unexpected voice piped up and got involved...

"It's alright, John," Nikki sighed, with a weak smile, "You can go."

I turned to stare at her; "Really?"

"Sure. Go and solve the case. I know your thumbs are itching for your pistol..." Her gaze turned flirtatious, "and no, that wasn't a euphemism."

I chuckled lightly, "Thank you," I said, standing up and pulling on my jacket again, "Really; thanks. I really am sorry about this..."

"We can pick up where we left off at a later date." She suggested with a shrug, as I bent down to kiss her lightly on the cheek like she had done to me once before. Her smile was small. She was resistant. As was I.

Sherlock and I left the flat, heading straight for the door. He wasn't waiting for me, and I knew I had no choice but to keep up - his mind was set.

However, as I left the flat, I thought I saw Nikki draining the last from her glass and looking rather worried or distressed about something.

Maybe it was what she said she wanted to tell me...

But maybe my eyes were mistaking me again.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock took me to a block of flats a couple of miles away from our own - and not too far from Crotchety park, it seemed. He explained to me when we arrived that the body had already been identified, and the crime scene; cleared. It appeared that whilst Nikki and I had been out, he had been busy dusting for fingerprints and squishing his eye against his little magnifying glass. And we weren't going to Crotchety park - we were going to where the girl discovered had lived.

"Mia Coast. Aged twenty-five - her name was written in her clothes. Other than that, it's just like before: no form of identification. No phone. And no real family."

I nodded solemnly as I took in the information, and watched through the taxi window as the block of flats came into view. It was cheap and tacky accommodation; like the simplest of dorm blocks that you might find at some old and run-down University. Dully grey concrete. Unpainted. A group of four young men in hooded jumpers stood by the main entrance; smoking and spitting on the pavement. After what had happened earlier in the evening, I made sure to steer clear of them. After all, I was still a little tipsy...

Sherlock swiftly led the way up the steps and through the squeaky front door. It had an eerie atmosphere in there; the sounds coming from behind the cardboard-thin walls that separated flat from reception. I heard the sounds of what appeared to be a very loud cat meowing, a very loud TV blasting the Jurassic Park theme tune, and two very loud people who were..._enjoying one another's company_, shall we say.

Sherlock walked right up to the front desk (ignoring the sounds that were coming from all around us in all directions) and began banging his palm on the bell as loudly as he could.

"HELLO?" He called impatiently, "ASSISTANCE PLEASE!"

"Sherlock!" I scolded, pulling him back. He glared at me and continued to compete with the racket to get the attention of someone who had power in the place. Thankfully (for my sake) a small, frail old woman came shuffling out of the back door a moment later.

"Hello, there. How may I help you, dear?" She said; seemingly oblivious to how noisy the place was. Maybe she was used to it. Maybe she was just a bit deaf.

"We need the key to the flat of Mia Coast," Sherlock explained.

"And why is that?"

"Police business." I answered.

The woman seemed to pause for a moment, judging whether or not Sherlock and I were telling the truth. She had beady eyes, like a rat, and a tight mouth like she constantly had a sour taste in her mouth. But other than that, her face was that of an average, sweet old woman.

_A bit like Mrs Hudson,_ I thought.

The moment she took to judge us seemed incredibly long. Meanwhile, the two people who were "enjoying one another's company" started to enjoy themselves a little bit more. So much so that I began to feel uncomfortable - did no one else hear them?

"Alright," She said; grabbing a key from a box behind her, "This way."

In her weathered slippers, she shuffled down the corridor to our left and led us further into the building; past room after room, and up a staircase or two. Whilst we walked, Sherlock began questioning her (she had introduced herself as Mrs Biggs). I was at the back, so couldn't get in the way to stop him...

"When was the last time Mia came back here?" Sherlock said.

"I don't know."

(At this point, normal people would have said "you don't know?" in a very polite way. Sherlock - the least normal person in Great Britain - was rather blunt about the whole thing...)

"Why?"

"No one ever saw her, really. But I couldn't complain, could I? She's always quiet. Never causes a fuss or complained about anything - she's my best tenant."

"Was." Sherlock corrected.

"Hmm?"

"She _was_ your best tenant, Mrs Biggs. She's dead."

"Dead?!" The woman stopped on the staircase and turned to look at us in shock.

"Yes. Dead." Sherlock continued, irritably; clearly eager for her to get moving, "Not breathing. Not moving. _Kaput_. Dead."

"My, my..." Mrs Biggs gasped, "The poor girl...how did it happen?"

"That's what we're _trying_ to find out."

"Is it anything to do with that job she was doing?" The elderly woman asked, continuing to lead the way, "Could that have been it?"

"It says on the report that she was a shop assistant at _Morrison's_ - I highly doubt it."

"No, no, no," Mrs Biggs said, shaking her head, "The other job she did. For that bloke - he comes knocking every now and again, asking for her. Telling her he's got a job for her to do."

"What job?" I asked.

"I don't know for certain," She went on, "Never heard either of them say outright. But whenever he came round, he'd give her a wad of cash - quite a bit from what I saw - or hand her a package and a slip of paper. She'd take it, and then go out at some point in the week with it under her coat."

"How often did this happen?"

"I only saw her do it twice, but they seemed to know one another quite well, in business terms. Everything was very swift, as if it had been practised many, many times...but she's very quiet and I have other things to be doing than spying on my tenants. They pay the rent, that's all I care. If I questioned everything they all did I'd have none of them left!"

At this point we had finally reached the room. Mrs Biggs put the key in the lock, turned it, and then entered. Sherlock did not hesitate before gliding past her. I, however, was a little more patient, and allowed Mrs Biggs to go before me.

The room was plain and simple, and definitely had not been cleaned properly in a while. Dust covered most surfaces, particularly the small bookshelf that was obviously rarely touched. Clothes were strewn about the floor and unmade bed in a casual manner, but not in a way that suggested someone had been searching through Mia's possessions - she had done it all herself in laziness. The singular, grubby window, was open as wide as it could go - a full two inches from the rotting wooden frame - and at most corners of the walls, the wallpaper was bubbled and peeling away due to damp.

It smelt musty.

"Is there anything else you need, dears?" Mrs Biggs asked politely.

"No, thank you," I answered with a kind smile, on behalf of the both of us, "But we'll come and find you once we've finished our investigation."

Mrs Biggs nodded in return and left the room - I didn't blame her for being eager to get away from Sherlock, who was on his hands and knees inspecting under Mia's bed.

"Found anything?" I asked him, once the door had been closed.

"Plenty," Sherlock's muffled voice said from under the bed; he sounded pleased, "just as I'd suspected..."

Suddenly, he sat up straight again; his dark curls bouncy and alive in a slightly manic way as he held up a bag full of something for me to see. It took me a moment to realise just exactly what it was. But then:

"Is that...?"

"Cocaine!"

"You might want to lower the voice and lose the grin, Sherlock."

Sherlock seemed not to have heard me. he continued to mutter to himself.

"What the hag was saying about Mia's 'job'; this makes sense. There's plenty here. Definitely too much for personal consumption. The girl was a distributor. Money was tight, she got involved with the wrong crowd...but she knew the man well. She'd known him for a long time then. Perhaps he was a family member, or old friend. She was only twenty-five...but look at this place! Not exactly rich living...no real job. No real family. Forced to get caught in the drug trade. So why was she murdered? Was she a threat perhaps? No...not a threat. She was a _warning_...but a warning to _who_?"

"Wait a second," I interrupted, "Why can't she have been a threat? If her boss thought she was going to hand him into the police then-"

"What kind of idiot would do that though? She was in on it too, and needed the money to keep this flat of hers. Very few people would get involved with something like this unless they had any other choice, but it's a difficult thing to get out of - the people at the top end are never fully trusting to those who do the dirty work. That's why they don't like letting their workers..."

He stopped, and I watched his eyes flicker as if he was skim-reading some text on an imaginary computer screen. He then smiled - that wicked, self-satisfied smile that showed he knew exactly where this was going.

"Of course!" He said with a grin, and began walking around the room in his disturbing excitement, "Of course! How could I have not seen it _sooner_?"

"Mind clueing me in on this too?" I asked tiredly - the beer and wine making it more difficult than usual for me to keep up with him.

"Drugs, John! _Drugs_!"

"Once again, Sherlock, I think you need to lose the sense of glee upon finding drugs. People will ask questions."

"The drug trade, John! Don't you see? I just said it! It's obvious! And I bet that when Molly gets back to me about what was under the other victim's nails, and checks her clothes for substance traces she'll find that the two of them have minute traces of cocaine," He chuckled again, "No real family, no other support, no other choice than to _get involved with criminals!"_

It took me a minute to see where he was going with this.

"So..." I said, "You're saying the two girls were working for this same man?"

"Yes!"

"Delivering the drugs to the clients for him?"

"Yes!"

"And he murdered them because they were trying to get away from him and the whole scheme of things?"

"YES!"

"Alright, no need to get so excited. You're sounding like the couple in the room next door."

"You're being awfully tetchy, John, considering we just solved a very big piece of the puzzle here," Sherlock said.

"Yes, well it seems to have escaped your notice that I was having a wonderful evening with a beautiful woman before you came barging in and ruined it all! All for what? To make some wild theory about the two victims being drug dealers, with no way of knowing who this boss guy of it all is!" I was getting quite angry now. I'd forgotten that the walls were made of paper, and that the whole corridor could probably hear me, "All I wanted was to have one night without you Sherlock! One night without you and your antics so I could enjoy the company of a woman for the first time in months! But you don't even know what that's like, do you? All you care about it SOLVING CRIMES!"

Sherlock said nothing. Instead, as if on cue, his phone beeped. After unlocking it, he held up the screen for me to see:

_DID THE TESTS, LIKE YOU ASKED. FOUND TRACES OF COCAINE UNDER BOTH THE VICTIMS' FINGERNAILS AND IN THE POCKETS OF THEIR CLOTHES.  
FANCY GETTING LUNCH TOMORROW? I GET OFF WORK AT 2.  
MOLLY  
xxx_

I read the message twice, and sighed. I really did hate it when he was right all the time.

"I'm going home," I said tiredly, "You obviously don't need me here anymore. I don't know what the heck I'm talking about. I'm not helping at all. There's no point in me being here. Call me if you find a lead to the killer, or if there's another victim or whatever."

I headed towards the door. Two seconds later, much to my surprise, Sherlock did the same.

As we walked down the noisy corridor together in silence, I saw Sherlock text four letters to Molly in return for all her work:

_NO._  
_SH_

Some things never stand a chance at change.


	13. Chapter 13

Two months passed; in which not a lot happened for Sherlock.

He had successfully deduced that the killings had a pattern: both girls had been drug dealers, working for the same man, and had most likely got on the boss's bad side (hence, their murders). Mia had not been sexually exploited, like Stephanie had, so there was a difference there. Both had been stripped of their identification - the most curious of which being their mobile phones. Sherlock was very interested in that. However, having no more leads towards the killer and potential victims, all he could do was sit, think, re-analyse, and wait...

However, in the two months that passed, _a lot_ happened for me.

I had apologised profusely to Nikki for leaving with such short notice on our first date, and had managed to rid my guilt, and score some points, by buying her flowers. Since, we had done all the cliché dates that people go on - the cinema, a restaurant, bowling, another restaurant, a walk in the park, a fancier restaurant, a trip to a museum, an even fancier restaurant, a trip to an art gallery, and then a quiet evening in after I realised I'd spent too much money on restaurants and other leisure activities. I think it was safe to say that she was my girlfriend at that point, considering the number of make-out sessions the two of us had willingly been a part of. I think it was also safe to presume that Nikki was the kind of woman who liked to take things slow; "getting off" with each other was as far as we had gone.

I didn't mind. I didn't want to rush anything with her. I was actually surprised that I'd managed to make it last this long with her - anything over six weeks was a record with me.

It was also at this point when Nikki's dog finally arrived. She'd explained to me that it had been living with a friend of hers for the past month of so, while Nikki moved into her new flat and got herself settled, et cetera.

It was a frumpy little thing - a British Bulldog with the traditional squashed face, drooling jowls, and stump of a tail. It seemed to be constantly panting, or making a squelchy noise as it licked drool from its own chin. But although not the prettiest of creatures to be around, it did have that contented smile that every dog should have. And when Nikki made a fuss of him, and his stumpy tail wagged, and his tongue lolled out in gratification, it was clear that this dog brought happiness to Nikki's life, and that she loved him with everything she had.

I had always been a dog person, so Gladstone (as the dog was called) was no trouble for me at all - a good addition to the odd family of ours, as it were. However, as soon as Nikki got back from her friend Heather's house, and the creature waddled through the front door behind her, I remembered Sherlock's reaction when I had first mentioned Nikki owned a dog...

True to his nature, Sherlock made no attempts to bond with Gladstone. I knew after their first meeting that things were not going to go well between them: Sherlock walked in to see the mutt sitting in his armchair; happily getting fur and saliva all over the fabric, as he sat scratching behind his ear. When Sherlock questioned the dog, only to get no reply (obviously), he attempted to move it. Unbeknown to Sherlock though, Gladstone suffered from severe carsickness, and was still recovering from the journey to the flat. When Sherlock ruthlessly picked the dog up, it threw up all over the lanky man's suit. Sherlock has since eyed the dog with mistrust.

I'm actually starting to worry that Sherlock might use his hatred towards the animal as a reasonable excuse to start doing "scientific research" on him - the last thing a work-deprived Sherlock needed was something new to experiment on...

However, luckily for Gladstone, two days later Lestrade came to visit.

I was in the shower at this point (_literally_ had just turned the water on), when I heard of his and Sally's entrance. Luckily, I had left the door open a crack, so I was able to listen in on their conversation, but nothing much was really said. Sherlock skipped the "Hellos", being typical in that kind of thing, and Lestrade didn't hesitate to get straight to it. He said the name of the girl, where we could find her, and that this one seemed to be a little older than the others - in her thirties, they presumed.

After that, it was all a bit hectic. Sherlock came bustling into the bathroom, already getting ready to go out. I started yelling at him to get out, just like last time. Lestrade and Sally could be heard trying to suppress giggles in the next room. Nikki arrived, having heard the noise from downstairs, and was directed to the bathroom. I was frantically trying to dry and get dressed while Sherlock was yelling back at my about how important the case was, and how we needed to get there as soon as we could. I walked into the living room. Sherlock followed. Lestrade started yelling at Sherlock to hurry up. Sherlocked started yelling at _me_ to hurry up. Meanwhile, I was trying to get my head through an arm of my jumper, Gladstone was barking, Sally was trying to tell everyone to shut up, and Sherlock was telling Sally to shut up, whilst going to kick Gladstone, and missing.

And then Nikki, above everyone, asked whether she could come too.

At that, everything went quiet.

I, having my head stuck in the arm hole of my jumper, and being completely confused by the lack of sight and rabble of noise, simply said: "Huh?"

"I want to come too...if that's alright."

There was a very long moment of total stillness. I tried to look through the small holes between threads in my jumper to see what was going on.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Our housekeeper."

"My _girlfriend_." I interjected, finally getting the jumper off.

"And she wants to come too?" questioned Lestrade.

"Yes," Answered Nikki, "If that's alright."

"But she's not an officer," Said Sally, as if Nikki wasn't even there.

"Neither's me or Sherlock," I said, moving to stand beside Nikki, and putting an arm around her waist, "but you still invite us to go along."

"Fine. Whatever. Let's _go_."

There was more debate for about five minutes before there was a final agreement on Nikki tagging along. She was practically bouncing up and down with excitement in the taxi ride there. She kept saying how it was amazing to be a part of mine and Sherlock's adventures, after reading my blog for so many years. It was strange having her there, but in a good way. Three in the taxi felt different from the usual two. I sat in the back with Nikki this time. Sherlock sat in the front, next to the driver. Scowling.


	14. Chapter 14

It had just gone midnight when I heard a noise in the flat.

I was already in bed, in my pyjamas, and trying to get off to a deep, dreamless sleep (something I never seemed to manage, what with my recurring memories of Afghanistan never failing to revisit me in the darkest hours of the day). I was just drifting off - just beginning to slip away into the blissful, restful darkness - when...

_Creak_

I heard a floorboard outside my room.

I wouldn't have found it suspicious if it had been a loud noise. Sherlock would never succeed as a phantom of the night (despite how much he might look like one) due to the racket he always made when sleep eluded him. I had actually begun to sleep through most of it.

However, the quieter the noise, the more suspicious I found it. And so, driven by my own curiosity, I threw back the duvet and grabbed my dressing-gown.

"_Sherlock_?" I whispered. Then louder; "Sherlock?"

No answer.

I gulped and held my breath, listening. I found myself simply staring at the carpet beneath my bare feet as I focused all my attention on listening to sounds. I daren't move. I daren't breath. I just listened...

And that was when I heard the frail, shaky breath of a crying woman.

"J-John?"

"Nikki?"

Immediately, I threw the door open and, sure enough, there stood Nikki - sobbing, and wearing nothing more than her underwear and one of my t-shirts that was far too big for her.

I didn't hesitate before throwing my arms around her, and I felt her cling to me like I was the only person in the world.

"T-the body, John..." I heard her say in a muffled voice against my chest, "I-I can't get t-that i-image out of my head! T-the _blood_..."

"Sshh," I said soothingly, as I held her close and stroked her hair. I could think of nothing else to say. She seemed so frail and child-like in the darkened corridor of the flat - like a completely different person to the one I had previously seen in the day.

"I just don't know how you do it, John..." Nikki said, "How y-you can just..._see_ that, every day, and just not be affected by it. How do you cope?"

"You forget I was a soldier," I answered, and I placed a hand against her pale face, wiping away a tear, "You were brave today. And I'm proud of you for holding it together for so long."

I leant down and kissed her quivering lips. Then her tear-stained cheeks, and her wet eyelids. I then held her once more for a very long moment. The only sound was the ticking of the clock in the living room. It seemed to echo throughout the flat. Her shoulders shook with every sob.

"John?" She finally said, when her quivering had ceased, "Will you stay with me tonight?"

I gulped. This was a question that could have two meaning behind it. It was a question that the little voice at the back of my mind had been whispering to me ever since the two of us had shared our first kiss. I wasn't proud to be thinking it, but I would be lying if I said I hadn't thought about spending the night with Nikki at all...

But tonight I knew this was not what Nikki had in mind. She needed me to be there for her - to comfort her and to hold her and to tell her everything would be alright. And I was determined to do just that for her - the frail woman I held in my arms was not the one I knew and it broke my heart to see her without a smile.

"Yes," I answered her gently, "Of course. But first, let's get you something to drink."

I grabbed the blanket from my bed and wrapped it around Nikki's shoulders to keep her warm, before taking her by the hand and leading her to the kitchen. She sat down at the table; her eyes distant as they focused on the images that were flashing in her mind, and I got her a glass of milk to sip. Thankfully, there were none of Sherlock's "Test subjects" in the fridge, that I would sure would have only made the whole situation with Nikki much, much worse. And so, not caring for the electricity bill or what little food we had in stock, I left the door wide open. The artificial light illuminated the kitchen. It was all we needed to see each other properly.

We sat there for some time as she described to me what was troubling her - the things she had seen were not for the faint hearted, after all. But I told her that discussing them with someone would be a form of closure for her, and I think it helped that I had seen it all too. She had someone who could understand exactly what she was going through.

"It's not something we're accustomed to seeing," I explained to her, "London is a busy place filled with many people who never have, and never will, see something as gruesome as a dead body. It's not pretty, and it's okay to be upset by it. I was actually surprised that this wasn't your initial reaction."

She took a deep shaky breath in an attempt to stop her shoulders from quivering so much. Her hands, however, continued to tremble. I turned her to face me and interlaced her fingers with my own. She felt cold. But I could tell she appreciated the action.

After a very long moment of just sitting in the dark, I decided that a change of subject would probably be best for her. Sherlock had helped me recover from my psychosomatic limp by distracting me with cases and complex puzzles. Nikki would probably be less appreciative of something like that, but I had something in mind...

Without a word, I took her hand and gestured for her to stand with me. With just a few steps, I led her to the living room; our bare toes appreciating the warmth of the carpeted floor. My hands then moved down to her waist, and hers; up onto my shoulders. We swayed together, like two awkward teenagers at a lousy school disco, and my action really did do the trick - I saw that smile of hers that I loved so much; the one that was capable of somehow pulling at the strings of my very heart, and lightening even the rainiest of days. And her smiling made me smile too. I wanted to savour this moment; to truly appreciate it and remember it, so I was able to recall it in years to come with no difficulty at all. Because, in an odd yet simple way, as we danced in the light of the refrigerator, and I twirled her under my arm, the rest of the world felt completely still and silent. The whole of London was asleep and dreaming and yet here I was - with the most beautiful girl in the world in my arms - and I didn't want to sleep. Reality was far better than my dreams. If we could have just stayed like that forever - if time could have stood still, and the darkened sky outside could have just _stayed_ dark, and the people of London could have just _stayed_ asleep for the rest of time - I would have been so happy. I could twirl the beautiful girl in my arms for as long as I wished. It would just be us, and no one else. A vision of perfect in the midst of natural darkness - lit only by the light in the fridge, and that of the twinkling stars through the window...

She laughed when I twirled her for a second time, and fell into my arms. We held each other close for some time; just enjoying the warmth of one another, and I smelt her hair. She looked up at me; beautiful grey-blue eyes searching in my own. And without need of asking, I brought my lips down to Nikki's so that she could kiss me. And she did.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes were still looking into mine. I thought she was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't be certain. It was possible that I was only seeing what I wanted to see...

But then she took my hand, and I followed her as she made her way down the stairs towards her own flat, and her own bedroom.

It was there that we kissed and undressed and embraced together on the bed, in our own little world of affection and love and simplicity. Passion and fire came hand-in-hand with romance and tenderness. The light from the streetlamp outside gave a golden glow to the room and Nikki's skin. She was still the prettiest girl I had ever seen - and she loved me; war-wound, age-lines and all.

It was all I could ever ask for...

"John?" Nikki whispered from somewhere in the dark.

It must have been half past two now. It was the early hours of the morning, that was for sure. But time seemed to have stopped for me while I was with Nikki. It just didn't seem to be of importance when I was lying next to her.

"Hmm?" I murmured sleepily, nuzzling into her neck.

"Thank you."

I chuckled, "For what?"

"For...for being so gentle."

I opened my eyes and looked down at her, propping myself up on my elbow. By the light coming from the streetlamp outside her window, I could see Nikki's face, glowing pale in the darkness. Her eyes were bright, but seemed fearful for some reason. It was as if she was scared of how I would react to her sudden comment.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well...the last man I was with was...aggressive. He never really cared about me at all, I don't think. For a while I thought...I thought that was just how it was in every relationship...I'd begun to forget about compassion..."

I wasn't quite sure what she meant by this, and I think my confusion was apparent by my expression, but I could tell that this was a delicate subject for her, and I didn't really wish to know about the bedroom habits of previous men she had been with. Instead, I simply looked into her eyes, brushed back a strand of hair from her face, and whispered in her ear:

"You don't need to think about that now. Because I'm here. And I _do_ care about you."

I kissed her neck again adoringly; allowing my lips to caress her skin as she held my shoulders. I traced a line of kisses down her collar bone, and up her arm; then each of her fingertips individually. I wanted to make her feel loved and adored and happy. And when she blissfully sighed, I thought I had managed to erase the fear from her eyes completely. But the next words she spoke seemed to be said with a delicate quiver in her voice.

"John, I...I think I love you."

At that moment, I stopped. And in the instant my lips came away from her skin, I felt her whole body freeze. With a feeling I could never fully describe pulsing in my heart, I lifted my head from her neck and looked into her eyes. Although I wasn't smiling, I hoped that my eyes were conveying just how contented her words made me feel - the timid look that remained in her eyes confused me more than Sherlock's most complicated deductions.

What did she think I would do? Was she scared her words of truth would frighten me away? Did she think I didn't care for her in the same way she cared for me?

Not quite knowing what to say to her, I kissed her on the lips; tenderly, lovingly, trying to show her just how much those words meant to me. Trying to make that fear vanish for good.

"I think I love you too." I said honestly.

I saw her smile and it made my heart stop for a moment. She was so beautiful. So breathtakingly beautiful. And she loved me - just as I loved her.

I kissed her deeply and passionately once more and cradled her close to my bare chest. Her head rested against my shoulder and I felt her warm lips against my war wound. It was so dark and so quiet in that small bedroom of hers that for a moment it felt like we were the only two people in the world. This feeling of blissful peace and solitude and completeness would have lasted all night, I was certain - if it hadn't been for Sherlock deciding to play his violin upstairs at three o'clock that very morning. The sound made me smirk and chuckle to myself, and I found myself unable to sleep and just stayed up for hours, listening to Sherlock's beautiful symphony and watching the resting face of Nikki as she lay in my arms.

We were happy. We were in love. And we were together.

I was sure it wouldn't waver in the slightest.

But, of course, the next day - it did.


	15. Chapter 15

"ARE YOU _FREAKIN' INSANE?!_ HAVE YOU _ACTUALLY_ LOST IT?!"

Sherlock stayed firm and did not remove his scowl away from mine. Two inches away and I could feel his calm, collected breathing on my face as he looked down at me from his ignorant height. I was quite ready to rip those black curls of his right off his head.

"I do not care for your insults, John." He muttered, "I'm being honest with you."

"YOU'RE CRAZY! THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE!"

"John…"

"YOU'RE WRONG! IT'S NOT TRUE!"

"John—"

"YOU CAN'T JUST GO AROUND ACCUSING PEOPLE AND MAKING ASSUMPTIONS TO MAKE THEM GUILTY!"

"_John!_"

"WHAT?!"

"I'm not saying she committed the crime," Sherlock said coolly, taking a step away from me, "I'm not saying she's guilty. I'm simply saying that she's involved."

"YOU HAVE NO PROOF-!"

Sherlock stopped me from speaking by handing me an evidence bag he'd been hiding in his pocket. Behind the transparent plastic, I saw a single white hair.

"What's this?" I said irritably.

"A hair. Found at the crime scene we went to yesterday. I got it from Lestrade when he was being annoying."

"You stole it."

"Borrowed."

"_What's your point_? So, you found a hair?"

"A dog's hair. A British Bulldog, to be precise."

"So the victim owned a bulldog? So what?"

"Possible. Only there was no sign of a dog."

"What the _hell_ are you implying?"

"You know what I'm implying. We know of a bulldog, don't we, John? Or our flatmate from downstairs does. He was sat in that very armchair this morning, was he not? DNA tests haven't been run yet, but I'm willing to bet my skull that a sample of Gladstone's fur wold match up to the sample you're holding in your hands right now."

"Sherlock—" I began to grind my teeth in irritation.

"And then of course there was Nikki's reaction to the dead body. As soon as she saw it – what did she do? Didn't scream or grimace or look interested. She froze—"

"Many people would—"

"–she was _composing her face_, John, she _knew_ the girl!"

"She was not! You're being ridiculous!"

"Alright then," Sherlock huffed, marching over to the mantel piece where Nikki's purse was.

"What are you doing?"

"What about this?" He held up Nikki's fake ID, "Check the date on it, John. She got this _two years_ ago. Not when she was a teenager. She's lying to us and you know it—"

"I CAN'T _BELIEVE_ YOU WOULD EVEN-!"

"YOU'RE JUST TOO AFRAID TO ADMIT IT TO YOURSELF!"

"SHUT UP! YOU ALWAYS DO THIS! YOU ALWAYS MAKE SUCH BIG STORIES OUT OF SUCH STUPID LITTLE DETAILS! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

"I'M JUST SAYING THAT WE SHOULD QUESTION HER-!"

"SHE'S NOT DONE ANYTHING!"

"HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?!"

"BECAUSE, I…I…"

Now it was my turn to freeze – I couldn't think of an answer.

Sherlock didn't press me for one, like many others would. He knew he had won, and his smirk proved it. There are many times I've wished to take his smug little face and shove it down the toilet like some stereotypical bully with the class nerd, but never had I wanted to do so more than at that moment.

If Sherlock hadn't left the room, I don't think I would have been able to control myself.

He was making this up, I was certain of it. It wasn't true.

This was Nikki he was talking about. Nicola Johnston. My _girlfriend_. And the most stable one I'd had in a long time. Sherlock was just stirring things, like he always did; ruining my chances of moving out of the flat and in with a girl. I know he hates being completely alone all the time, but he'd just have to get used to it. And his way of making me _so angry_ wasn't going to change a thing. I believed in Nikki. I didn't care what lies Sherlock presented me with. He could easily have faked the dog hair – it was all over our apartment, after all. He had no concrete proof at all. None.

Nikki was innocent.


End file.
